


the Words Unspoken

by LouPF



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Gimli is the NB character), Abuse of Khuzdul, Beards (Facial Hair), Disabled Character, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Dark Names, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarves Only Love Once, Hair, Khuzdul, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Dwarves, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Shy Legolas, again that's Gimli, again. Gimli, anxious legolas, lol, that would be Gimli and Ori
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: When Gimli is but a child, he gets lost in the mines of Ered Luin. It is dark, and it is cold, and he is alone.He will never recover.With his shaking hands and his Stonefear Gimli cannot perform as well as he wished, as a Dwarf. He can't go on a Quest to reclaim Erebor. He can't go on a Quest to reclaim Khazad-dûm.He can, however, force his way into the Quest to save all of Middle-Earth.There he meets Legolas, who reminds him too much of his friend Ori, in many ways.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hover your cursor over Sindarin or Khuzdul to see the translation!

When Gimli is fourteen, his babysitter looks the other way a few minutes too many, and he wanders into the nearest mining system without looking back.

They find him two days later, shivering in a dark corner, tears running freely and silently.

He does not make a single sound for two weeks, and then amad is forced to multitask and enter the mines carrying him. His screams are loud enough for the entirety of Ered Luin to hear, and they do not quiet before he’s back in his own quarters in the upper levels of the mountain.

His hands will never cease trembling.

*

He turns forty, and, as is custom, he begins to look for a craft.

He cannot be a smith, nor a jeweler, nor a carpenter, nor a mason, nor a scribe, nor a musician, nor a fletcher, nor a leatherworker, nor a hairdresser, nor a, nor a, nor a. They all require finesse he does not posses. On his best days he can almost draw a straight line, and on his worst, he can barely hold a spoon for fear of spilling food.

That would be fine on its own – there are dwarrow who cannot perform a craft and get a mastership, for whichever reason. They can still help the community – can still function and perform their part.

The issue is that Gimli cannot ever be a miner, for the darkness and closeness suffocates him and pulls him down into murky waters. He will faint, and he will scream, and he will panic. And what is a dwarf, if he cannot mine?

*

Gimli takes up warcraft, when he is forty-two. He begins because it does not need finesse, and because he is angry. He continues because the finesse it truly requires is a finesse he can perform – precision in the body, in the feet, in the mind – and because the axe is heavy enough to still the trembling of his hands.

It is the axe he settles for, for that is the heaviest weapon he can find. Swords are too delicate, and he can never aim true with a bow, nor with a spear.

Dwalin Fundinul teaches him and does not care for the way his fingers can’t properly grasp anything lighter than his armor, only grunts, pleased, whenever he does something right.

*

Ori becomes an unlikely friend. Gimli finds him in the library, sent there on his father’s request, poring over some ancient texts.

They find solace in each other. Where Gimli’s hands shake, Ori’s aim is true. Where Gimli’s words come as readily as the sun in the morn, Ori’s stutter and halt and tremble.

Ori writes. Gimli reads. Together they come to an understanding.

Gimli’s secondary craft becomes his words. He cannot write them down, but he can speak, and think, and read.

That is enough, for a while.

*

Then he turns sixty-two, and a Company of thirteen sets out to reclaim Erebor and slay the dragon that rests there.

Gimli is desperate to join. They say he is too young, but their eyes stray to his hands, and Gimli clutches his shaking fists until his nails draw blood.

Adad is going. His cousins, Fili and Kili, are going.

Ori is going.

Ori does not stop apologizing. Gimli does not forgive him for leaving.

He does forgive him for everything else.

“Goodbye, my friend,” he says, and Ori throws himself at him, looping his arms around Gimli’s shoulders, and Gimli cries into his neck.

“I – I wish,” Ori stutters out, quietly, so quietly that only Gimli can hear among the dwarrow gathered to see the Company off, “that – you had – that you had been my…” He trails off, is quiet for a moment. His hair tickles Gimli’s bare skin. “That you had been my One.”

Gimli knows he’s not. He has the Longing – has born it and carried it since the day he first opened his eyes – and so does Ori. Yet he is not Ori’s, and Ori is not his.

They are not each other’s.

“Aye,” Gimli says, muffled by Ori’s hair, and that is the end of it.

*

There is not a single practice doll standing untouched by Gimli’s blade by the time Ered Luin is informed that the dragon is slayed, Erebor reclaimed, and her heirs dead.

*

When the first caravan is to leave Ered Luin, Gimli puts his foot down and _demands_ to be part of it.

The day they are to leave Gimli stares at himself in the mirror, and with trembling hands he weaves a braid in his beard that he and he alone can do. It’s shorter than he’d wish, but longer than most his age, and he is certain of its meaning.

He carves the symbol he needs into a blank wooden bead – a temporary solution until he can buy something better.

Amad merely takes his hand when she sees, pressing their foreheads together gently. She smiles.

*

The caravan from Ered Luin meets the caravan from Erebor half-way, and adad is one of the first to tear free from it, running ahead.

“Gimli!” he cries. “Gimli! My star, my son!”

(Adad has always been fonder of Gimli than amad, though Gimli knows he loves them both all the same. He’s simply had amad for longer than Gimli – he will greet her later, after assuring himself Gimli is fine.)

When Gimli bolts ahead to greet him in return, they do not slam their heads together. Nay, adad presses gently, softly, and it’s enough for Gimli to come close to weeping.

Then adad pulls back and lays eyes on Gimli’s braids, and his eyes fill with tears. “Gimli,” he says gently, before grasping Gimli’s trembling hand and raising it in the air. “Gimli, child of Gloin! Gimli, my child!” he cries, loud enough for the caravan from Erebor to hear, and adad must have earned quite the reputation on his Quest, for there are many who cheer.

*

Ori is not in the caravan.

*

Ori is, however, one of the first to greet his arrival. Much like adad he tears out of the awaiting crowd, sprinting towards the travellers, and much like adad, he shouts, “Gimli!” as he runs.

Gimli has no words to respond with, for his throat collapses on itself. He bolts – flies across the ground – and slams into Ori in a hug, holding him tight, tight, tighter still.

They embrace long enough for the other dwarrow to mingle around them before they pull apart.

Gimli laughs. “I see you have a new braid, Ori-friend!” He nudges the courting bead nestled in Ori’s hair – not the hair itself, never the hair of this braid – and is pleased to find Ori flushing furiously in return.

“And – and I see that – that so do you!” Ori returns, nudging Gimli’s gender bead. ”Gimli, friend, I have found my One, and he is all I’ve ever wanted.”

He does not stutter once in that whole sentence. “Practiced, have ye?” Gimli asks, laughing again, and oh, how wonderful it feels to _laugh!_ “Who is it I have to go greet with the most thundering skull crusher I’ve ever delivered?”

Ori laughs, bright and young, mirth dancing in his eyes at the old nickname they have for the dwarven way of greeting. “It’s Dwalin,” he says, “Dwalin Fundinul!”

Gimli thinks back to the teacher who never once spoke a bad word about his hands and nods approvingly. “Aye,” he says, “he will do!”

*

In Erebor there is a magnificent, albeit worn, library. Gimli explores it with Ori, happy to have his friend by his side at last.

It is during one of those days, where Gimli clutches at books heavy enough to still his hands, that Ori speaks. “I’m sorry. I knew – I know – ”

Gimli puts down the book and glances at Ori, taking in his expression, judging what he wishes. Sometimes he dares brave his own treacherous tongue, but sometimes he is too frustrated for that. Today is one of these days, and Gimli simply offers his hand, opened and palm facing up. Ori nearly sags in relief – Gimli can imagine he has not been able to speak this way much, in the company of thirteen others who do not understand – and takes his hand.

The pad of his index finger presses against Gimli’s palm for a moment. Gimli waits, patiently, for runes to start shaping –

but instead Ori only lets out a frustrated sound, reaches into his pocket, and presses a bead into Gimli’s hand instead.

Gimli looks at the polished amber, inlaid with a simple onyx on one side, and the _G_ rune on the other.

“Ah,” he says.

They had both agreed – they had both known – that if they had not found their Ones, they would court and marry in the way so many dwarrow chose to do, once Gimli came off age.

Ori has found his One.

“It’s alright,” Gimli says, looking into Ori’s worried and terrified eyes with a comforting smile. “I understand.” He looks down at the bead – the one he had commissioned, when he was fifty. “You wish not to keep it?”

Ori puts two fingers on the bead. “I would,” he says softly. “If I may.”

Gimli tilts his hand around and presses the bead against the two fingers. “Do so, then, and wear it if you will, in the braids of true friendship.” Ori looks up, startled, but Gimli shakes his head. He will not take happiness from his friend, not when he has found it – not when Dwalin and he can coexist. “Nay, not courting, I know you cannot – will not – would not. Only, well, I missed you.” And he brushes his hair back to reveal, looped around his ear, a true friendship braid secured with a pearl bead, inlaid with a simple onyx and the _O_ rune.

Ori reaches out to touch it. Gimli allows him – will always allow him – for his heart beats strongly for him, in friendship, the kind closer than any other. “I wish…” says Ori, yet he trails off, his words hanging in the empty air between them.

“Aye,” Gimli says, taking Ori’s smaller hand in his own and stepping forward to press a kiss to his brow. He has always been gentle, in ways few dwarrow are. “I know.”

*

Two years after the Ered Luin caravan arrived at Erebor Gimli stands as Ori’s wedder, and over one ear an amber bead is nestled in his dirty-blond hair, and over the other rests one of obsidian.

Gimli weeps, not for his friend, but for his happiness.

He presses his brow to Dwalin’s, gently, and greets his brother welcome.

*

“Ori,” says Gimli. They’re standing in the Gold Chamber, where the Company battled Smaug the Terrible and lost, where Thorin, King Under the Mountain battled the Dragon Sickness and won. The molten gold shimmers like sunlight, and it has become a place of bravery and courage.

Ori turns to look at him with such open honesty that Gimli cannot doubt what he now will say.

“Kurdubrazul.”

It takes Ori only a second to realize what he has said, and then his hand flies to the amber bead in his hair. “ _Gimli_ ,” he breathes, eyes wide.

“Kurdubrazul,” Gimli repeats – corrects. He notes Ori’s expression and steps forward, cradling his hands. “You need not return it.”

Ori’s eyes water. “Kurdubrazul,” he repeats, and Gimli beams. He did not stutter.

Ori leans forward to rest their foreheads together – and so he whispers his own Name, gentle and perfect.

*

Ori will leave to reclaim Khazad-dûm. Dwalin will come with him.

No one will hear of Gimli coming along. Not even Ori. Ori, who has seen Gimli’s darkest, who wears his bead, who holds his Name within his heart.

Ori says nothing, only squeezes his hands tightly, and he needn’t say anything then.

“I am a _warrior_ ,” he snarls, treacherous, _trembling_ hands clutched by his sides, shaking now in anger. “I have taken my mastery! I am of _age!_ ” His cries rattle the mountain, and still none lets him go.

Not adad. Not amad. Not sweet Ori.

And when he takes the matter to King Dain, his King gives him a long look. “They worry for ye, kid,” he says. “And for yer hands.”

“Finally,” Gimli grunts, “someone who can speak straight. I know it’s my hands, aye, but they are not a problem.”

“They’re shakin’ even now.”

“Aye,” Gimli agrees, “and shake they always will, yet my axe is strong and my grip firm.”

“Certainly,” King Dain says, raising his eyebrows. “Ye will have a hard time finding a warrior as good with the axe in this mountain as ye.” Yet, he shakes his head. “Still, there ain’t a single dwarf who haven’t heard of your Darkfear, nor your Stonefear.”

Gimli looks away, ashamed. He’s heard it said in the quiet, in the shadows. ‘ _Not a proper dwarf_ ,’ they’ve said, ‘ _can’t even mine!_ ’.

“They are the same,” he grits out.

“Aye. My point exactly. You know what Khazad-dûm is called?”

It takes a moment for Gimli to understand. “ _Moria_ ,” he says. “The black chasm.” It takes another moment, and then he cries, “I am not afraid!”

King Dain levels him with a heavy look. “Then why do ye argue, and not just go? Yer grown. No one can hinder ye. Aye, they can try, but yer strong. So this I ask of ye, Gimli Gloinul. Why do ye simply not go?”

*

“Be careful,” Gimli begs of Ori, holding him tighter than ever. “I will come after you, one day.”

Ori takes his hand and signs, _I will fill the caverns and halls with starlight, so you may walk them with me._

Gimli chokes back a wail and presses their foreheads together – soft, tight, and long.

*

Four letters arrive by mail, and then Gimli never hears from him again.

He rages, at first, tearing the pearl bead from his hair, uncaring for the pain. He flings it across the room, and his breath hitches as it slams into the wall.

When it lands unharmed on his bed he sinks to his knees and buries his face in his hands.

He weeps.

Later, he will braid his hair anew, and put the bead in anew, and he will not wear mourning braids, and he will not give up hope.

*

It has been twenty years and Gimli’s hair and beard are full of braids and beads and ties, and still a pearl dangles beneath his left ear, brushing close to his jaw.

He sits in a council of Men, Elves, Dwarrow, and Hobbits, and they discuss the fate of the One Ring.

He’s clutching his axe so tightly that no can see his hands tremble. Only adad, sitting next to him, will know. And that, to be quite honest, does not matter to Gimli right now.

This time there are no dark caverns, no deep mountains, and no one to argue.

Gimli child of Gloin is not afraid.

“And you have my axe!”


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets gayer y'all!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover your cursor over Sindarin or Khuzdul words for translation!

There are several milestones when it comes to Gimli’s relationship with the Fellowship. The first is their first shared meal – he talks with the Hobbits, Sam in particular, at length about the best and proper ways of eating and food. Sam is shy and tentative in a way that Gimli adores, and he cannot help but care for the little creature already on the first day.

Sharing food in any way is a bonding experience, and while Gimli knows other races do not follow the same way of reasoning, he thinks it might be so for the Hobbits, as well. If nothing else, the others are too occupied with their own eating to notice how Gimli trembles.

The second milestone is when he gets a smile out of the Elf. Legolas is of a quiet sort. He speaks little, and only if prompted – though, Gimli has noted, he speaks more with the Men (Aragorn in particular) than any other – and his smiles are even rarer. Gimli’s surprise is greater than any’s, he thinks, when a lewd dwarven joke is what gets a snort out of him.

Next he bonds with Boromir and Aragorn, the Men and heirs. That is simpler – he need only talk and smile and be kind, and that seems to be enough.

Legolas, Gimli notes with the keen eyes of someone who knows what they’re dealing with, struggles. It’s not that he doesn’t try – Gimli can see it, in his eyes, in the way he carries himself. He can tell how he wishes, how he wants. Yet, so often he fails – and it seems to be more a battle with himself than anything else.

Or, Gimli thinks to himself, one evening when they’re talking over the fire and Legolas keeps wetting his lips with a frown, perhaps a battle with his _words_.

“Would any of you be familiar with – ” he tries one day, before stopping himself. “With – with the – ” And he moves his hands about in something that might be Elvish hand signs and might be mere vague gestures. “The – the green – ”

“The herb?” Gimli tries tentatively, eyeing the gestures. “Or, mayhaps, the plant?”

“The _herb_ ,” Legolas says, sounding relieved. “Yes, thank you. Are any familiar with – with the Herb of…” he trails off once again, tilting his head back to scowl at the heavens.

Gimli steps up to stand beside him, slipping into a familiar pattern. “Describe it, lad,” he says, as gently as he can. “Mayhaps we do know. With me, now – it’s an herb, aye?” Legolas nods, watching him with confused eyes. “Where does it grow?”

“I have seen it in forests,” Legolas allows carefully, frowning now, not in frustration but in wonder. “Lush forests – in Greenwood.”

Slowly, step by step, Gimli walks him through the herb’s description and its uses, where it grows, what he knows of it, its history. He can hear Legolas’ voice warming, a forge lit in his throat, his words forming and shaping.

This, Gimli thinks, might be his tertiary craft.

Merry, as it turns out, has heard of the herb. Legolas, however, seems to be more interested in Gimli than the question he had originally planned to ask.

*

It’s a good thing it’s cold as winter-iron upon the mountain, for now the others shake as much as Gimli tends to do, and no one thinks twice about his twitching hands.

“I say, to Moria!” he cries, over the howling of the winds. “To Khazad-dûm! To my cousin Balin, who Lords there!”

 _To Ori_ , a little voice whispers in his mind. _To Ori!_ It grows only louder as they continue, and as Frodo says, “Let’s go through the mines!”

_To Ori!_

*

He’s the first to notice the skeletons by the entrance.

He screams as he has never screamed before. “Ai, ai! My kinsmen! Ack! What foul fate hath befallen you?” He falls to his knees by the closest skeleton, uncaring for who it might have been, wishing only to anchor himself, to –

he cradles the skull in his hands and presses his forehead against its, and his tears wet his beard. “Ai! Ai! Ai!” he wails.

The little voice who had called for Ori cracks and dies.

There are none left, if these dwarrow lie here, so open, so bare.

Gimli lifts his head and stares into the suffocating darkness of Moria, and Ori’s bead is heavier than ever.

He must brave the darkness.

He must brave the caves.

He stumbles to his feet. A new voice comes, so similar to the old. _For Ori_ , it whispers. _For Ori. Be brave. For Ori._

“Gandalf,” he says, and while the guilt and shame eat away at him, at least he shall admit this beneath a roof of stone. And admit it he must, for he cannot burden this Fellowship. Not when he knows what depends on it. “I suffer from Darkfear, from Stonefear. Know you what it is?”

Gandalf stares at him for a long moment. “I have not heard of it before,” he admits slowly, “but by their names, I can make a guess.”

Gimli inclines his head. “If it takes me – and you shall know, if it takes me, for if I cannot tell you it has, it has – then you must leave me here. It is too far to carry me, and I cannot walk myself, once it has taken me.”

He’s speaking from experience.

Gandalf nods gravely, even amidst the Hobbits’ surprised and dismayed cries. “What may we do to help?”

“Light, if possible,” Gimli says, for that has always been the greatest fear – the one of the dark. “Let me rest in fresh air, if we find it. Distractions.” He shrugs. “There is not much you can do.”

*

Every step hurts. Khazad-dûm, as glorious as it once was, is truly no more than a dark hole. At least to Gimli, and his thundering heart, and his quivering hands.

“Gimli,” Legolas says, and his voice tears through the clouds in Gimli’s head like the break of dawn. “Gimli, what ails you?”

Gimli tucks the hand not currently clutching his axe into a pocket. “Everything, you daft Elf,” he mutters, and he bends his head to hide his welling tears.

He cannot breathe, and he cannot think, and soon he will not be able to stand without fear of shattering.

*

“Ori,” Gimli whispers, even before he reads the book, even before he recognizes the handwriting, even before _anything_.

He simply knows. He _feels_ it.

“ORI!”

He falls next to the empty bones and cries, cries, cries. He must be speaking, for his throat rumbles, and he must be weeping, for his eyes ache. His heart wails, threatening to split into two, and his bead and braid is thicker and heavier than ever.

The fight comes and goes too fast for him to follow; there are not enough orcs, not enough enemies, and his axe falls and falls and falls and Ori is _dead_ –

then he crouches by the skeleton again, hands tracing the skull, splatters of wet droplets marking the dusty bone.

Sweet Ori, who was never his One, who would still bind to him, who never cared for his hands and never cared that he spoke faster than he thought – sweet Ori who wrote such beautiful words he could never make himself say, who swallowed his tongue more often than he ate food.

Someone speaks his name. He cares not who; cares not why. Ori. _Ori. Ori!_

“Gimli of Gloin, we must _go_!” the voice comes again, and it’s _Legolas_ , Legolas’ hand upon his shoulder, Legolas who reminds Gimli of Ori even though he hasn’t allowed his heart to even think of it –

Ori’s skeleton had been jostled during the fight, and now something rolls out from somewhere beneath the shoulder blades.

It’s an amber bead, set with a simple onyx and engraved with the _G_ rune.

Gimli’s heart stops.

He reaches to pick it up, but he’s shaking worse than ever, he only manages to fumble for it, fingers scraping helplessly against the floor.

“Gimli,” Legolas tries again, sounding desperate.

“Pick up the bead,” Gimli says, fumbling again for it – failing, and the tears _burn_.

“What – ? Gimli – ”

“ _PICK UP THE BLASTED BEAD!_ ” Gimli roars, and Legolas bends, picks up the bead, and together they run out of the room.

They run through the darkness of the caverns, and Gimli’s heart beats, though it feels like it screeches.

_I will fill the caverns and halls with starlight, so you may walk them with me._

The tears flow freely.

*

They fall out of the caves, and Gimli lies on his back, staring up at the sky, lit in daylight as it is.

He lifts his head and gazes at the exit, at the shadows looming there, and while he is intensely relieved at _freedom_ –

he knows he crumbles, can feel himself shatter, and the sobs begin in earnest, rawer and wilder now than before.

The Hobbits look to him with something akin to shock; Boromir and Aragorn with terrifying concern.

Legolas steps over, sinks to his knees in front of him. There are streaks of shimmering tears on his cheeks.

Gimli snarls – is ready to spit, to bite, anything to be left alone by an _Elf_ –

Legolas holds out his hand and turns it over.

Gimli’s amber bead shines golden in the sunlight.

It echoes so painfully of another day, a happier day, and Gimli blurts, “you’re sorry?” before he can stop himself.

There’s something very familiar about the relief on Legolas’ face when he nods.

Gimli grabs the bead like a lifeline and allows himself to lean against Legolas’ shoulder, pressing his forehead against his thin and hard collarbone. “So am I, lad,” he says, and even he can hear the sorrow thick in his voice.

*

“Master Gimli – would you walk with me?”

Gimli looks up into the face of Legolas – the face he had once thought was emotionless and dead – the face he has seen marred with determination and grief. “Certainly, Master Legolas,” he says, responding in kind as he stands up.

Legolas nods his head – whether in gratitude or recognition he cannot say. “I would – ah, well, I would like to ask you - ” He breaks off and frowns even as he starts to walk towards the nearest cluster of trees.

“You want to ask me some questions?” Gimli guesses, and Legolas nods in relief.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Gimli shrugs. It’s easy enough. “Ask away, then, lad.”

“I – it – it regards – Moria,” he says, stumbling over the words in an _achingly_ familiar pattern.

When Gimli looks up at him, his expression is achingly familiar as well. “What is the underlying emotion to this?” he asks, gently, deciding to try and steer Legolas in the right direction. “Anger? Wonder? Worry?”

“Confusion,” Legolas allows quietly.

“Alright, then,” Gimli says, nodding, “what are you confused about? Khazad-dûm, aye – her history? How she was built?” When Legolas grimaces, he continues with, “or perhaps it regards the Fellowship?”

“You,” Legolas blurts, “it – you.”

“It regards me?” Gimli asks, just to be sure. “Aye, alright. Something I did, or something I said, or something that happened to me?”

“You – ” Legolas tries, but he bites himself off with a sigh. “Something – you did, yes – I – why you wept?”

Gimli stills.

“I – no!” Legolas hurries to say. “No, do not misunderstand – I meant, only, Gimli – did you know them?”

Huffing, Gimli looks away, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “Aye, some.”

A pause. “No!” Legolas repeats. “No – I mean – the – ” And he chokes off. Gimli glances up at him – notes the way he keeps tugging at one of his braids, a gesture he’s never seen him do before.

“The one with the bead,” Gimli finishes for him. Softly. Gently. _For Ori. For Ori. For Ori._ “You’re asking if I knew the one with the bead.”

“…yes,” Legolas says. “I – I apologize, do I overstep?”

Gimli shakes his head. “You do not.” He sighs, moving over to a fallen log to perch on the wood. Legolas, graceful and balanced, sinks down beside him. “Only – ack. His name was Ori. And I loved him. Had he not married, we would have been each other’s.”

Legolas makes a keening noise at the back of his throat. “I – I’m sorry.”

“The bead,” Gimli says, instead of answering, “was the promise bead. I gave it to him, when we were young.” He reaches up to touch the pearl hanging by his jaw. “This is the one he gave me.”

 _He knew my Name_ , he does not say. _He knew me, he knew me, he knew me. He trembled and I shook and we knew each other and he was mine, as I was his_.

He does not speak.

Something about Legolas’ expression tells him he understands, either way.

*

Legolas keeps watch while Gimli cuts the friendship braid from his hair, tying the other end of it with his own bead. One end shimmers pearly white, the other dully golden.

Gimli tucks it into his pocket, as is custom.

Legolas does not ask.

*

There are few times Gimli despises his hands more than he does when he has to groom his hair. After the darkness – after Khazad-dûm – well, he’s sweaty and dusty and full of cobwebs. He refuses to clean his beard in Elven land, no matter how fair her ruler, and so that will have to wait. His hair, however, is not such a terrible thing to clean in public.

When he looks at the Fellowship he sees friends, either way. Perhaps not close friends, not yet, but he cannot dislike a single soul among them.

Not after Gandalf.

And so he goes to a nearby stream and takes out all his braids and all his beads and all his clasps, cleaning as thoroughly as he can.

He runs his hands through his hair, and his thumb brushes across the shortened hair above his ear. The small, hurt noise he makes is entirely unwanted.

When he begins to braid his hair anew, his hands are shaking so badly that some of the braids are nearly impossible to finish. His beads are, quite possibly, the hardest of them all to set in place.

He drops his hair with a low curse, clenching his hands in his lap. They shake, shake, shake, as they always do, as they never will stop doing.

A body settles besides him. Gimli looks up, startled, to find Legolas watching him with intent eyes. He says nothing, only holds up a comb – pale and lithe and simple, of obvious elven design.

Gimli stares at him for a long moment. It’s not that he doesn’t understand what Legolas asks for – it’s not that he doesn’t see what he’s offering.

It’s just that the thought of steady hands in his hair is a terrifying one, for he hasn’t felt it since Ori.

Legolas does not know what he’s implying. Gimli knows – can see it in his eyes – in the carefree way he holds his comb.

He nods. When Legolas shifts, raising the comb, he does not regret it.

“The same?” Legolas asks, pulling the comb through his hair.

“The same.” Gimli eases the grip on his own hands, unclenching them, pressing them flat against his thighs. “Not the beard,” he croaks, and Legolas tugs lightly on some strands to show he heard.

“Your hands,” Legolas says, softly. “I have seen.”

Gimli shuts his eyes. Of course Legolas has seen. Of course. _Of course_. “Aye,” he says. “They tremble like autumn leaves. There is nothing to do about it.”

And Legolas tugs on another strand of hair. It is gentle, and he does not speak.

*

They don’t talk about it. Not with words. They don’t talk about the way Legolas sticks to Gimli’s side, or the way Legolas looks to Gimli when he can’t speak, or the way Legolas calls Gimli _friend_ , calls Gimli _conath-nin , _calls Gimli _callon_.

(Gimli asks Frodo, for Aragorn keeps giving him surprised looks, and Frodo explains what they mean.

“I’m no hero,” Gimli says to Legolas, and Legolas only laughs.)

They don’t talk about the way Gimli greets Legolas like an old friend, or the way Gimli speaks to Legolas without fear, or the way Gimli swells with pride whenever Legolas says more than usual.

They don’t talk about any of that. And when they both insist on sharing a boat from Lothlorien, they both know there’s no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin  
> conath-nin: my voice  
> callon: hero


	3. Chapter Two

The boat is rocked by the water. Gimli, who has always lived underground and rarely felt the sun on his face, finds that he adores it.

“Gimli,” Legolas says, from where he’s sitting opposite of him, hands clasped around the ores. “Will you tell me of – of your love?”

Gimli blinks. “My love?” he repeats. While he has a One he does not know who they are, and so is unable to tell Legolas of them. Why would Legolas even know of a love in the first place? Gimli has only spoken about –

oh.

“You mean Ori.”

Legolas nods.

The grief is fresh. Very much so, it twines around his heart and lungs and squeezes so tightly it’s hard to breathe. Gimli swallows, then holds out his hands. They’re shaking, still – it’s a good day, and they’re out in the open, and there’s nothing to be afraid of, so they’re not at the worst they could be. “See how my hands shake?” he says. He waits for Legolas to nod. “Ori’s words shook the same.”

“What do you mean?”

Gimli tucks back his hands, folding them tightly. “He stutters. Stuttered.” He looks away, not fully able to hide the grimace of pain. “Sometimes he forgot words, or was unable to say what he meant. His words shook, and his tongue failed him.”

Legolas’ mouth falls open in an o and his hands still, for a brief moment, before he resumes the rowing. “You were his voice,” he says quietly. “That is how you know…”

“How to help you,” Gimli finishes. “Aye. You do not struggle the same, for all that it is similar – your words don’t shake. You just lose them. Or am I wrong?”

Legolas shakes his head. “You are right, friend. Westron is…” He trails off and scowls.

“Hard,” Gimli says, smiling.

“Hard,” Legolas repeats, the scowl fading. “It is not my chosen language. I am – ” He hesitates, but does not stop, and Gimli lets him have a few moments to try and find the word he’s looking for. “ – scared,” he continues, hesitantly. “I am scared of what people might think. I do not understand.”

“And that’s alright,” Gimli assures him. Ori had felt the same way, at times. “Aye, Legolas, I was Ori’s voice. I learned. And I knew him well. When his words failed, I could read them in his eyes, in his expression, in his movements.” He chuckles, tilting his head back to cast a wistful glance towards the heavens. “And when that failed, I gave him my hand, and he wrote the words upon it.”

Legolas is silent for a moment. “He wrote, then?”

“You would not believe how beautiful his words were, Elf, if I told you,” Gimli says, though he offers Legolas a cheeky smile to show he means no harm by it. “What he could not say, he wrote. What he could feel, he wrote. I have my tongue from him; he taught me how to express myself.” He shakes his head. “In some ways, he was my voice in return. I could not – cannot – write so others may understand, and Ori wrote until his wrists ached. Were there words I wanted to keep, he gave them to me.”

Still he has some of the letters Ori had given him, when he had longer things to speak of and Gimli’s hand was not enough.

“You were close,” Legolas notes.

Gimli smiles wistfully. “I’ve never been closer to any other.”

*

The Fellowship is sundered.

Boromir is dead.

Dear Sam and brave Frodo have made for Mordor. Alone.

Loyal Merry and cheerful Pippin have been taken by orcs.

Gimli runs.

*

Aragorn, when he lies down to rest, falls asleep almost instantly.

Gimli, too riddled by his worry and fear, does not.

Legolas, Gimli sees, does not do so either.

“Do we light a fire?” Gimli asks, and though he is tired, he cannot make himself rest.

Legolas looks at him. “I need no flames,” he says.

“Neither do I,” says Gimli. “That’s a no, then?”

Nodding, Legolas lies back in the grass, hands folded behind his head. They have not even pulled out their bedrolls. “I,” Legolas says, but he cuts himself off. “No. Forget it.”

Gimli looks at him, but his pose makes it hard to see his expression. “If you will it,” he says. He’s close – not very close, but close enough to be considered _near_. He shifts, presses his palms against the grass behind him, and leans onto them. His hair – the very same braids that Legolas had braided, and isn’t that a strange thought – falls over his shoulders and cascades down his back.

Above them the sky drips of stars – shimmering, twinkling, as though there isn’t a war going on, as though two innocent creatures haven’t been kidnapped, as though Gimli doesn’t shake.

“You know,” he says, and Legolas shifts – only a little bit, just slightly, but enough. “I could have gone with Ori. To Khazad-dûm.”

Legolas sits up. He brushes some hair out of his face. “Why not?”

“Why I didn’t go with him?” Gimli asks. When Legolas nods, he looks back to the stars, smiling grimly. “I was terrified. I’ve never been good with caves. Or the dark.”

“In – Moria – Khazad-dûm – ” Legolas stumbles, shifting again, closer this time. Now he sits on his knees, hands in the lush grass. “You – ”

“My grief was thick,” Gimli says. “It sounds horrible, but it was enough of a distraction.”

Legolas stares at him.

(ethereal – he looks ethereal, in starlight, in moonlight, hair like mithril, eyes like celestine – skin glimmering only ever so slightly –)

(Gimli remembers, then, Ori had told him, after Erebor, that Kili had found himself an Elf, had said she walked in starlight, and now –)

(now he _sees_ –)

Gimli swallows and looks away.

He’s familiar with this, with having a silent companion. Ori never minded when he jumped between subjects like an eager miner looking for gold. Hopefully Legolas doesn’t mind, either. He looks back up, taking in the stars. He hasn’t been out of the mountain often enough to see the stars much. Being deep in a mountain is pressing, so he tends to keep to the upper levels – both when he lived in Ered Luin and now, in Erebor.

In Erebor there are balconies he can clamber onto during both day and night, and he wasn’t _kept_ from going outside, exactly, but there were few chances of being out at night – and the lights from Dale and Erebor herself were often enough to cloud and hide the stars.

There is nothing like that now. “I rather think these are the most beautiful stars I’ve ever seen,” he says, softly. “I know they are the same stars everywhere. Yet I feel…” he trails off. Thinks of it all, of all that has happened, of how the braid tucked close to his heart burns. When he continues, his voice is low and quiet. “Yet I feel like I have never seen something quite as breathtaking as them.”

“ _Gimli_ ,” Legolas breathes, and Gimli looks over at him, sees his glistening eyes, sees his flushed cheeks.

“Aye.”

Legolas breaks into rapid muttering in the elvish tongue of his, lithe and graceful like a bird. He chokes off and buries his face in his hands, hair falling over his shoulder like a curtain. “I – can’t – ”

Gimli looks at him.

And then he holds out his hand.

It’s barely shaking.

Legolas stares down at it, a flicker of surprise before he closes cool fingers around it. “Runes,” he chokes, “I don’t…”

“Westron,” Gimli says, and the words sound dry even to him.

Legolas presses a finger to his palm. _You_ , he spells, an expression of intense concentration taking over him. _Are._

Then he stops. His fingers twitch – forming half-letters and broken lines before he stops again, thinking.

This is not Ori, who knew what he wanted to say but could not speak. This is not Ori, who’s words shuddered and halted in his mouth.

This is Legolas, who feels, but does not know how to say so. This is Legolas, who fears language.

 _You are_ , Legolas spells again, and then he folds his fingers around Gimli’s, clutching at him like a lifeline, looking at him as though he is – not a gem, Legolas is an elf – as though he is the brightest star on the sky.

*

“Legolas,” Gimli says, before the battle of Helm’s Deep can truly begin, when they’re still just staring down at the orcs below them. “Don’t die.”

Legolas smiles.

Gimli’s hands shake when he untangles some strands of his beard and undoes a braid.

He pulls out the bead, reaches for Legolas’ hand, and presses it against his palm. “Return it,” he says, “after the battle. I will not have it unless it comes from your unharmed hands.”

Bending on one knee, Legolas puts his free hand on Gimli’s shoulder. He leans forward until their foreheads touch.

Gimli’s heart stutters.

He cannot know what it means. He cannot.

Gimli leans into it.

“I will,” Legolas whispers.

*

“Gimli child of Gloin,” Gimli whispers harshly to himself, staring at the dark tunnel before him, “you will flourish.”

He takes a deep breath and steps into the caves.

The voice at the back of his heart returns with vigor. He must survive this. He must come to the battle. He must see Legolas again, must see the stars in his eyes, must hear his voice –

The voice whispers. _For Ori! For Ori! For Ori!_

And yet still, the voice also screams. _Legolas, Legolas, Legolas, Legolas –_

*

The caves are magnificent. Gimli looks upon them, riddled with gems, and thinks of the stars.

*

“Gimli – Gimli!”

It’s Aragorn, pushing his way to the crowd to where Gimli is sitting, perched on a stone and with a wet cloth pressed to his headwound. Gimli looks up when he approaches. “Aye, lad?”

“It’s Legolas,” Aragorn says.

Gimli’s up before he can finish speaking.

*

Legolas lies with bandages around his shoulder, with bandages around his hands. There are splotches of blood on both of them, staining the white red.

“Legolas,” Gimli breathes.

The daft, idiotic Elf merely smiles serenely up at him. He beckons him closer and takes his hand when he does. Is he going to start spelling? Gimli fears he will be unable to still the tears, if he does.

No. Legolas hands him the wooden bead Gimli gave him before the battle.

Gimli shakes his head, braids dangling wildly. “No,” he croaks, pushing the bead back, wrapping Legolas’ bloody fingers around it. “Lad, no, I told you – I said – I would not have it, not unless it came from you – from your unharmed hands.”

Legolas’ gaze flickers to his bandages. “Oh,” he says meekly.

He does not let go of Gimli’s hand.

*

They ride on to Isengard – to Saruman, and to the Hobbits.

The first night on the road Legolas looks through his pack and curses softly. “I seem to have exhausted my store of arrows,” he says, more to himself than Gimli. “And my hands…”

Gimli takes in his hands, still bandaged and hurt. “You cannot make new ones,” he concludes, and Legolas nods tiredly.

One would have thought that with Gimli’s track record for crafts, masters would turn him away when he wished to learn a new one. It was quite on the contrary, however – there is nothing more dwarvish than overcoming obstacles, and what is Gimli’s hands, if not an obstacle?

No master had been able to teach him. They had all admitted after some time that he would never be able to finish the fine work that was needed for a masterpiece, and so he would never earn his master’s.

Well – until Dwalin. Until Ori.

Gimli has tried fletching.

He picks up his knife.

*

“You don’t – ” Legolas tries, but Gimli scoffs.

“You are an archer, lad,” he says, starting to hack his way down the branch.

Legolas has arrowheads and feathers aplenty, but no shafts.

“I – I have blades, as well,” Legolas complains, shifting once more, now to sit beside him, frowning down at his hands.

“You,” Gimli repeats, “are an archer.”

It quiets him, for some time. Yet he stays, watching with careful eyes as Gimli whittles away at the branch.

It’s been some time since he had to do this – his memory is good, but not good enough to make anything of fantastic quality. Gimli has, however, been able to see quite a lot of Legolas’ arrows since this godawful war began. He knows what to do.

If only his hands would _co-operate_! The knife slides over the wood without results, and when it does bite it either chops off just a little too much or not quite enough.

Legolas. Needs. Arrows.

The knife-hand gives a particularly violent twitch, causing the knife to cut off to the side, nearly sinking into Gimli’s thigh.

“Gimli,” Legolas says gently, leaning closer, his hair falling over Gimli’s shoulder. “You will hurt yourself.”

“You are,” Gimli grunts out, lining the knife up again, “an _archer_.”

“I know how to work wood for arrows,” Legolas says. Close. Close. Close.

Gimli scoffs, casting him a brief glance. “Your hands,” he says simply.

“I know,” Legolas replies softly, and then he leans forward to put his hands over Gimli’s.

Steadying them.

Guiding.

And for once it’s not Gimli’s hands that quiver, but his heart.


	4. Chapter Three

The cave entrance to the Paths of the Dead is glaring.

Gimli stares. He has been in caves before. He has lived his whole life in caves. While the darkest – smallest, tightest, lowest – terrifies him, those above ground rarely do.

Yet this one makes his skin crawl.

The darkness of it is suffocating – all consuming. Vaguely Gimli notes someone entering, and it is as though they have stepped through a portal – the moment they touch the darkness, they are gone.

This is nothing like Helm’s Deep – that he could live through, that he could deal with, for the gems shone like stars and the water rang like bells.

This is nothing like Khazad-dûm – the darkness was thick, and the grief thicker – he had walked between rows of skeletons and wept for his kinsmen, but even then it was familiar, and even then he could feel the stone –

Khazad-dûm –

( _I will fill the caverns and halls with starlight, so you may walk them with me_ )

(there had been no starlight there had been no starlight and Gimli should have come _with him_ )

( _“No one can hinder ye. Why do ye simply not go?_ ”)

(why didn’t he go why didn’t he go why didn’t he go oh **_Ori_** )

Gimli takes a staggering step back – can’t face that darkness, can’t face those shadows, can’t listen to that voice, that voice that cries _Ori, Ori, Ori, Ori!_

_(Not a real dwarf, not a real dwarf, not a real dwarf –)_

(And Ori, standing before him, holding his Name – “ _It’s not your fault.”_ )

_Ori, Ori, Ori, Ori –_

“Gimli.”

**_Legolas._ **

And that _is_ Legolas, back, back, _here_ , hand closing around Gimli’s. “Gimli. Mellon. Conath nin.”

“ _Legolas_ ,” Gimli gasps, stumbling forward, and Legolas is close and close and close and –

“Listen,” Legolas says, and he takes Gimli into his arms, wraps his arms around his shoulders. “Listen. I am here. I am. Breathe. Will you do that for me, Gimli, friend? Breathe for me.”

Gimli shuts his eyes and breathes. “Legolas,” he whispers, and breathes, and he breathes.

( _Ori,_ his heart beats, _Ori, Ori, **Legolas**_ –)

“We must through,” Legolas murmurs, unmoving. “It is dark, and it is terrible, but we must through.” Gimli nods mutely. “I remember, my friend, you are not good with caves, nor the dark, and here we meet both. Is there anything I can do?”

“Ground me,” Gimli chokes. “Anchor me.”

“That I can do,” Legolas agrees, pulling back just enough to glance down at him. “Breathe, my friend. I am here.”

Legolas leads him into the darkness, holding both his shaking hands in his, and Gimli finds that Legolas shines, even when there is no light.

The stones are heavy atop of him, close by around, and Gimli stumbles forward, stumbles, stumbles –

“Look at me,” Legolas says gently, squeezing his hands. “Look at me, friend. I will not lead you astray.”

“Ai,” Gimli whispers, “ai, ai, Legolas, I – ”

“Shh,” says Legolas, tugging him ever forward, “I know, and I am here.”

He can barely see for his terror, gaze fixed on Legolas before him, fixed on the way he gleams even now – and he takes a step, and another, and another. Legolas speaks, but Gimli cannot hear, his blood rushing in his ears.

Breathe, breathe, _breathe, breathe._ He must breathe, cannot stop breathing –

Legolas squeezes his hands, and his touch is cool and calming, his expression steady and _there_.

Breathing, breathing, breathing.

The riders come to a stop, the torchlights flaring across the sickly green grotto walls. Gimli looks to them, to Aragorn, and Legolas squeezes his hands once again. Gimli’s vision is blurring. He cannot hear.

Aragorn speaks.

And with a gust of icy iron that tears into Gimli’s very bones, the torches flicker and die.

A moment, and then Legolas tucks him closer, folds around him, pressing Gimli’s face into his chest. His mouth is open, he realizes, and something reverberates oddly in his throat –

he must be screaming. Legolas must be trying to muffle the noise.

( _Not a proper dwarf not a proper dwarf not a proper dwarf a dwarf would **never** scream from darkness_)

( _Ori, “It’s not your fault.”_ )

Gimli clings to him, fingers digging into his arms in a way that surely must be painful, but he cannot talk, cannot think, and then his feet leave the ground and he’s being lifted, carried –

Legolas is running.

It jostles Gimli, enough so that his head turns, his ear rather than his nose now pressing against Legolas’ chest.

A sound reaches him, through the haze, through the rushing.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Legolas’ heartbeat.

Gimli breathes. Breathes. Breathes.

When they break through to sunlight, it is as though a spell is broken – sound and smell and sight reappear, and Gimli breathes, breathes, breathes.

Legolas sinks down on the ground, letting Gimli go as well. Gimli moves, but not a lot – just enough to see his face, to see how the sun plays across his hair, to see his control wither into worry. “Gimli? Gimli, meleth, can you hear me?”

Gimli swallows, then nods. “Aye, lad, I can… I can hear you.”

Curiously enough Legolas flushes slightly, at that. His gaze, however, does not waver. “Thank Aulë,” he says, sighing heavily in relief as he sits back on his heels. “I thought you lost, there, for a while.”

“Nay,” says Gimli, though his throat is sore and his chest aches. He fumbles for Legolas’ hand, relieved when Legolas gives it willingly. “I am here.”

“You are,” Legolas says. Then he shifts. “Gimli – would you tell me of dwarven braids? And what they mean?”

Gimli gives him a look. “I know what you are doing, Elf.” Distraction.

Legolas gives him a look in return. “And will it work?”

He has no answer, only takes a deep breath and begins to explain. The words come easy, despite the secrets being shared – the hardest is translating Khuzdul words to Westron, when there is nothing quite like it.

Still, he does his best. He explains how hair braids are for choices and decisions and who you choose to be. Master’s braids, courting braids, marriage braids. He explains how some braids have the same pattern, and that the bead is what makes it special. He explains how hair is fluid and can change at any time.

“Your hair braids,” Legolas says. He sits closer, now, has ebbed and flowed like ocean waves while Gimli talked. “What do they mean?”

“I wear none,” Gimli says, with a careless little shrug. “My craft is fighting, and there is no Master’s braid for that. The braid I’ve worn has been a courting braid, and that was for…” He swallows.

“For Ori,” Legolas finishes for him – gentle, soft.

“For Ori.”

Gimli continues on to explain how the beard is who you are, your identity, the things you cannot choose for yourself. He points to his family braids, starting one at each cheek and tying into one further down, secured by _his_ bead where they connect.

“The middle is for yourself,” he explains, touching his gender braid gently. “Who you are. Your gender. There are three official braid patterns, but if they do not match what an individual wants to bear, they may customize or construct one as they wish.”

“This is the male braid, then?” Legolas asks, peering at it with open, honest curiosity.

“Nay,” Gimli says, and Legolas looks up at him in shock. “This is – well.” He grimaces. “There is no Westron name for it. We call it _gêmkhuzd._ It is neither male nor female.” He reaches up to tap the bead. “The bead proclaims which pronouns to use. Mine are male.”

Legolas sits back, some emotion flittering across his eyes. “I was afraid I had offended,” he says. “I am glad to hear otherwise.”

“Pronouns matter little to dwarrow, either way.” Gimli shrugs. “It is more to say you have seen and understood, than anything else.”

Legolas nods. “There is one last,” he says, a strange look about him. “Is there not?”

Gimli lowers his head. “…aye,” he says. “There is one last.” He twists the edge of his gender braid for a moment, thinking. “Dwarrow can love only once in their lives. There is only one person they have been crafted for, in such a way. Many dwarrow know, from early on, if they have a One or not. If they do, they may choose to carry the One braid – the last of the three beard braids.” The braid, ideally, was a smaller version of the family one. The owner of the beard would braid on one side, their One on the other, and they would cooperate on the connected.

Gimli, who had not found his One, had only braided half.

Now there is no braid there at all.

“You gave me the bead,” Legolas says.

He had. Quite knowingly, in fact. “Aye.”

His hands are shaking for an entirely different reason now.

Legolas tilts his head and looks away, glancing over to the Paths of the Dead. “The others are coming,” he says. “Aragorn was worried. We should go tell him you’re alright.” He moves to stand, but Gimli acts faster, shooting forward to wrap his fingers around Legolas’ slender wrist.

“Wait. Legolas.”

There is something clouded and hidden when Legolas looks at him – something Gimli recognizes, has seen before – but he’s not _quite_ able to figure out what it is, isn’t _quite_ able to recognize the flicker of warmth.

(and his heart cries _Legolas Legolas Legolas Legolas!)_

When Gimli lets him go, his touch lingers, and his fingers slide. He smiles as gently as he can, knowing it’s seen more in the eyes than the mouth, and hopes Legolas understands. “Thank you.”

The beam Gimli is given in return shines brighter than the sun.

*

“The dead are following,” Legolas says quietly.

Gimli, riding behind him on Arod, nods. “Aye,” he says gruffly. “I feel them.”

Legolas reaches back to put a hand on his thigh.

*

It doesn’t take long before Gimli has to return the favor of grounding and steadying.

They’ve set camp, Gimli and Legolas spreading their bedrolls a bit away from the men. They speak not of it, but Gimli knows he and Legolas feel the same about the situation; out of sorts, away from all they know, one of a kind and alone – except for each other.

Gimli is trying to ignite the fire when Legolas, sorting through his bag, goes stiff and rigid. The sudden stillness alerts Gimli and he looks up, glancing at him.

Legolas is not moving, his grip on the bag gone slack.

“Elf?” Gimli calls. No response. “Legolas,” he tries instead, putting down the matches. When Legolas remains still the worry truly bleeds into him, and Gimli staggers to his feet, stumbling around the fire to kneel before him.

His expression is open – not blank, never blank, but almost expressionless, nonetheless. His eyes are glazed over – not in sleep – and his mouth hangs open – though he is not _breathing._

Terror flares in Gimli’s heart.

“ _Legolas_ ,” he repeats, reaching for his hands. They’re so small in his, so delicate and gentle and _cold_. It has always been comforting, that Legolas is colder than him, for every dwarf is a forge in their own right – yet now it shakes him. “Legolas, bâhel, are you with me?” He utters a soft prayer, turning Legolas’ hands over and pressing his thumb against the place the skin should be thinnest.

He holds his breath.

“Thank Mahal,” he whispers, the gentle thudding against the pad of his thumb igniting hope. “Legolas. Legolas, lad, come back to me. Can you hear me? Come back.”

Legolas shudders, once, then heaves after air, falling forward into Gimli’s arms. He trembles.

“Legolas,” Gimli mutters, “Legolas, are you alright?”

Gasping, Legolas digs his fingers into Gimli’s arms. He presses his forehead into his shoulder. “Speak,” he says – _begs_ – “Gimli, speak, ground me – ”

Ground. Ground.

Stone.

Gimli speaks.

“I fear the dark, Legolas, has feared it for as long as I remember,” he begins, desperate to find the right words, the words that will keep Legolas here, that will keep this gem sparkling. “It is called Darkfear, among dwarrow, and goes hand-in-hand with Stonefear, the fear of caves. It is not usual for dwarrow, to suffer from either, and I suffer from both.”

Legolas shifts, and his hair tickles. “…brave,” he whispers, and for once his voice is not steady, for once it trembles the way Ori’s sometimes did. “Paths of the Dead…”

Gimli chuckles, shifting as well to better hold him, better wrap his arms around his shoulders, better steady him. Close, close, close. “Aye, I’ve been in caves on this quest,” he says, and his worry does not bleed into his voice simply because he forces it not to. “Khazad-dûm, where the caves were bad and the grief worse, and you pulled me away. Then Helm’s Deep and their Glittering Caves, and there was scarcely light and so much stone, but the gems shone like you shine, and I found my way. Last, the Paths, and I could not bear it, for there was not only Stone, not only Dark, but also death.” He sighs, reaching up to brush a hand across Legolas’ hair. He has not dared before, has not been close enough, but now – he cannot _not_ – and it is soft, so soft, so wondrously soft. “And when I failed,” he says, lowering his voice to a mere hush, “you carried me out.”

“Of course,” Legolas breathes, and though he sounds distant, he is not. “Of course, I… I did.”

( ** _Legolas Legolas Legolas Legolas_** )

“Of course,” Gimli repeats. “Ack, Legolas, I have told you this much, I may as well tell you all. I do not remember, but – when I was a wee child, I was lost in the mines of Ered Luin, and I was not found for two days. It is why my hands shake.” Legolas has stilled, now, but he remains where he is – close, close, close. “It is why I cannot mine.”

Legolas pulls back –

(and of course he pulls back of _course_ he pulls back Gimli is no dwarf, he cannot mine he cannot _mine_ , cannot craft, can only swing an axe, and then only because it is so heavy, _Gimli **cannot –**_ )

– and moves his hands – places them on Gimli’s shoulders – and gives Gimli a look of complete understanding. “It is _not_ your fault,” Legolas says, as though it is the only thing he knows is true, as though the words are engraved into his very heart.

And –

( _It’s not your fault_ Ori had said, brushing away his hair, drying his tears, _it’s not your fault, Kurdubrazul. It’s not your fault._ )

– Gimli cannot quite stop the tears.

“Aye,” he whispers, before Legolas can become alarmed. “Aye, I know.” He wipes at his tears, swallows down the sobs, and frowns. “Legolas, what happened?”

*

Gimli decides that he hates gulls.

*

“One, two, three,” he mutters under his breath.

“Six!” comes a cry to his left.

“Curse you!” he yells back.

“Four – ack, don’t run! – five – ”

“Eight!”

*

“Legolas! Are you alright?”

Legolas laughs brightly, jumping over a fallen enemy to come to Gimli sooner. “Oh, yes, Gimli-friend! Your count?”

But Gimli cannot answer, for Legolas stands with the sun behind him, and his hair becomes a halo. “I,” he tries, “…ah… that is…”

He only earns a teasing grin for his efforts. “Don’t tell me the great Gimli has lost his count?”

“No,” Gimli says, shaking some sense into himself. “No, no. Thirty-seven.”

This seems to be the right answer, for Legolas brightens. “Ai, mellon, then it is a tie!”

Gimli blinks, and then he lets out a roar of laughter. “Seventy four is not a bad number over-all, Master Elf! I say our work here is done.”

And so they make way towards the city.

*

Aragorn will ride for Mordor, to provide Frodo and Sam with what little time he can grant.

Gimli shares a single look with Legolas and agrees to go with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:   
> Mellon: friend  
> Conath nin: my voice  
> Meleth: love
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Gêmkhuzd: (the) third dwarf  
> Bâhel: friend of all friends


	5. Chapter Four

The night before they leave, Legolas comes knocking on Gimli’s door.

“Gimli,” he greets, after Gimli has stepped aside to let him into the room. He holds up his hands. “My hands are healed.”

Gimli raises an eyebrow. “Aye,” he says, “that I can see.”

Legolas reaches into a pocket and pulls out a wooden bead. Gimli recognizes it instantly; the simple, blank bead that signals he has a One, but has not found them yet. “You told me to give it back,” Legolas says, and takes a step closer, “when my hands were well.”

“Aye,” Gimli agrees. Yet when Legolas tries to hand him the bead, he takes a step back and shakes his head. “Legolas, I think it is time we have a talk.”

They will die at the Black Gates, and Gimli refuses to die without saying this.

He guides Legolas to the bed, sits down on it, and gestures for him to do the same. Without a single complaint or question Legolas sinks down opposite of him, and Gimli’s heart quivers. “Do you remember which braid this came from?” he asks, pointing to the bead loosely held in Legolas’ hand.

Legolas nods. “The one that says you – that you can… that you have someone you can love?”

“Aye.” Gimli smiles softly. “They are called Ones. The braid means I have a One. The exact meaning of the braid, however, changes depending on the bead.” Upon seeing Legolas’ intrigued expression, Gimli ploughs on. “There are three beads. One means that the wearer has not yet found their One. The second means they have found them, but have not told them. A third means they have found them, and have told them, and have been accepted.”

“This,” Legolas says, holding the bead up to his eyelevel to glance at it critically. “Means the last?”

Gimli blinks. “What?” He blinks again, processes the words – what Legolas might think – what it might mean. “No! It means I have not found my One yet. Why would you…”

Legolas snaps his head around so quickly Gimli fears his neck might break. “ _What_?” he says, his eyes going wide. “You have not found your – ” He breaks off, emotions flickering across his face too fast for Gimli to follow.. The emotion that emerges on his face, at last, is wonder. “All this time I have held my tongue, because I thought you were – I thought you had – I thought you _loved_ – ”

“I have found my One,” Gimli says, his hands shaking, his heart thundering.

The wonder on Legolas’ face shatters, and he draws back, brows furrowing. “But… you said…”

Gimli breathes. Breathes. “He sits right before me.”

Legolas drops the bead. Terrifying hope shines in his eyes. “I thought it was Ori,” he blurts.

(he cannot explain how he knows, yet he _does_ know, he _does_ , the way Legolas has looked at him, the way Legolas _looks_ at him, how they have touched, how they have spoken –)

“You fool,” Gimli says, and kisses him.

It takes only a moment, and then Legolas is kissing him back, hands rising into his hair. Gimli inhales sharply, shifting closer, closer, hands on Legolas’ waist –

“Gimli,” Legolas breathes against Gimli’s lips, “Gimli, meleth, calad nin– elves take only one mate – ” And then they’re kissing again, feverish and warm, and Legolas is on his back, Gimli above him –

“Aye?” Gimli says, pulling back just enough to stare down at him, cheeks flushed and lips soft. “You have one already?”

Legolas shakes his head frantically. “No! No – I – Gimli – ” He leans up to kiss Gimli again, hand tightening around his hair.

“Ah,” says Gimli, grinning down at him, and he burns. “You want _me_ to be your mate.”

Legolas whimpers, arching against him, mouth hot on his skin. “ _Yes_ ,” he whispers, “yes, naur nin, yes – _Gimli._ ”

“I have heard,” Gimli says, and then he can’t speak for they’re kissing again, and he needs he needs he _needs_ – “a funny little rumour” – he puts his mouth to Legolas’ neck – “about elven marriage.”

Legolas tugs at his hair, and Gimli obeys, moving up to kiss him again. “What says they?” Legolas asks, when they move apart just a bit.

“That laying together equals wedding vows,” Gimli says. Legolas tugs at his hair again, but this time he does not obey, instead watching Legolas, the way his chest heaves, the way his ears have gone ruby red. “That sleeping together, the act of it, is a wedding.”

Legolas stares back up at him, eyes clearing somewhat. “Yes,” he allows, at last. His gaze flickers, searching. “The rumors are true.”

“Do you want that?” Gimli asks, and though his words are gruff his tone is gentle. Absently he plucks at Legolas’ hair, toying with the strands.

“I do,” Legolas says without a moment’s hesitation.

“Good,” says Gimli, and kisses him again.

*

Gimli wakes up to a face-full of hair.

Legolas lies opposite of him, one hand carding through Gimli’s beard. His skin is pale against Gimli’s fiery hair.

It looks right.

“Good morning, husband,” Gimli says. The words rumble through his chest.

It feels right.

Legolas smiles a small, soft smile. “Good morning, husband,” he whispers, leaning close to kiss him gently. “I have some questions for you.”

Gimli traces the shape of Legolas’ ear. It’s bruised, ever so slightly. “About Ori,” he guesses.

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

And so he explains dwarven love. He explains that there is not only friendly and romantic love – explains that some dwarrow love their friends so hard and so deeply they wish to wed them. That it’s a bond tighter than that between parents and child, that it’s tighter than friendship, that it’s just as holy and cherished as lovers.

They sit close, heads lowered together, fingers tangled – Legolas’ knee pressing against Gimli’s stomach, Gimli’s thigh flush against Legolas’ waist.

Legolas nods through the whole thing. “I don’t understand,” he says, “not fully. But I know you speak true.”

Gimli leans against him and breathes, breathes, breathes.

He braids his One braid anew, holding it still while Legolas braids on the other side. The simple wooden bead secures them where they connect.

They break apart, briefly. Gimli pulls out a small box from his pack – wooden, engraved, and inlaid with silver. Inside lies the bead his mother made him, for his coming-off-age – meant to rest in the hair of his beloved.

Legolas sits terribly still while Gimli braids. Neither of them truly breathe while he works. When it comes to securing Legolas’ with the bead, he reaches up and clasps Gimli’s hands – steadying, guiding, anchoring.

From his hair Legolas pulls a clasp – made for silky elven hair, certainly, but it fits well in Gimli’s wild mane, the polished bone bright against his warm fire.

Legolas presses a kiss to Gimli’s brow. “Minuial nin,” he whispers, the words fanning across Gimli’s skin.

Gimli knows not what the words mean, but he can guess at them, and he replies in kind. “Aye. Danakê;.”

*

When they meet with Aragorn before they leave, he takes a single look at their joined hands, rolls his eyes skyward, and says, “Finally!”

*

They ride. Gimli behind Legolas, Legolas in front of Gimli, and if Gimli holds him a bit closer, a bit tighter, then no one can comment on that.

*

“Legolas.” The stars twinkle above them, Gimli curled up into Legolas’ side. “Know you of Dwarven names?”

Legolas shifts, moving to face him in the darkness. “…secret ones? I have heard rumors.”

“Aye.” He reaches up to trail a finger down the side of Legolas’ face, marveling at his soft skin, at the way the soft gleam lingers on his finger when he pulls it back. “Dwarrow are born knowing their true name. It is, as you say, secret. Only the very closest know a dwarf’s Name.”

“It is important, then?” Legolas asks, absently cupping Gimli’s cheek.

Gimli leans into the touch. “Oh, aye. The most important there is to know. Knowing it is… it means you know all there is to know, of a Dwarf – you know their very deepest self. Do you understand?”

Legolas nods.

“Good.” He takes Legolas’ hand and presses a gentle kiss to his fingers. “Kurdubrazul.”

Legolas’ eyes widen. “Gimli – ”

“Kurdubrazul,” Gimli repeats.

The sound Legolas makes is something in the middle of a sob and a choke and a laugh, and when he surges forward to kiss Gimli, his mouth is warm.

*

Gimli child of Gloin stands before the Black Gates of Mordor, his palm pressed flush against Legolas Thranduilion’s. His heart beats against his husband’s, and he stares ahead.

Fierce determination burns in his veins.

“Kurdubrazul,” Legolas says, ever so softly, ever so gently. Gimli looks up at him, and he looks back, as though there is nothing in this world except him.

They say no more. The words hang in the air between them. Unspoken.

Understood.

Legolas’ eyes shine.

Gimli child of Gloin stands before the Black Gates of Mordor.

And he is not afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul:  
> Danakê - my candle  
> Sindarin:  
> Minuial nin - my dawn  
> Meleth - love  
> Naur nin - my fire  
> Calad nin - my light
> 
> I know this ending might seem to be slightly abrupt. But! This right here is when everything is solved. Gimli believes this to be the end (It's not. He survives, of course, as does Legolas - the canon ending is canon here as well!). His and Legolas' arc is completed, every part of the plot completed. (At least I hope so... Mahal). If people are interested, though, there might come more for this specific universe later! I have two short ficlets in another LotR AU (Nonbinary Gimli is reincarnated and he knows it) - are anyone interested in reading those?


End file.
